Downbeat
by Charley The Plant
Summary: [Spoilers for AA1:RftA and AA6 DLC] Miles Edgeworth decides to get away from the city and spends some time in the countryside. While he's there, he meets an old friend and finally takes hold of the opportunity to resolve issues from long ago.


Daylight fades sooner in early October. It's the time of year when the air becomes crisp with the promise of winter. Thick jackets are brought up from storage and aired out. Scarves and mittens become a necessity.

Miles wasn't wearing a jacket. He had brought one with him for this trip, of course; he knew that the autumn weather in upstate New York would be cold, and rarely did the Chief Prosecutor fail to take such matters into consideration. He inhaled deeply as he stood on the porch of the farmhouse and felt the chill of the air spread throughout his body. The scent of earth and frost was welcoming.

Rolling up his sleeves, he stepped off the porch and walked towards the barn. Yesterday's wind had brought with it a tidal wave of leaves from the forest that bordered the small farm. Miles' heavy work boots pressed the brightly colored foliage into the damp soil as he strode across the yard. He looked at the sky as he walked. The first stars were beginning to peek out above the orange and yellow hues of the evening sky.

The convention had been a nightmare. Miles sighed to himself as he reflected on the events of the past three days. Not that the annual convention for the Legal League of Prosecutors was ever a fun event to begin with; the event this year, in particular, was surprisingly trying on his patience. An unprecedented number of international prosecutors were in attendance, many of whom Miles would have preferred never to see again after his stint abroad. Then again, Miles rarely looked forward to meeting anyone. He could count the number of exceptions on one hand.

There had been a great buzz amongst the prosecutors for the choice in venue this year. The convention had been held at an internationally renowned hotel in Manhattan. The convention space was grandiose and luxurious and the hotel rooms and restaurants even more so. It was no wonder so many prosecutors had decided to attend this year's conference. It irritated Miles all the same and he had headed straight to the farm right after the closing speech. It was odd to think that Miles Edgeworth, a man used to the kind of opulence the von Karma household once afforded him, would forsake Manhattan and its extravagance for a drafty farmhouse in the countryside.

He broke out of his thoughts when he finally arrived at the barn. It was further from the farmhouse than he had expected; slogging through the damp soil with heavy work boots had made his pulse quicken and his breath rose as steam in the cold air. Pausing briefly to take in his surroundings, he moved towards the south side of the barn where the sun still cast its glow over the farm. Logs were stacked underneath a blue tarp in a tin-covered woodshed that abutted the wall. A red wagon for hauling logs sat next to the shed. Rust had formed where the red paint had peeled away.

Miles pulled the tarp aside and grabbed two heavy logs. Without regard for his pressed white shirt, he tucked the dusty logs under his arms and approached an old stump that sat near the shed. An ax was lodged deep into the wood.

 _He would laugh at me if he saw me now,_ Miles thought. He dropped the heavy logs at the foot of the stump and grasped the old wooden ax handle. The wood felt rough and dry beneath his hand. He smiled wryly to himself. _Come to think of it, they all would._

With a sharp jerk of his shoulder, the heavy ax came cleanly out of the stump. He hefted it easily despite its weight. He then grabbed one of the logs with his left hand and placed it upon the stump. It was a large log; for a moment, he was uncertain whether he would be able to cleave through it in one blow. Standing with his legs apart, he took the ax with both hands and, remembering to use the weight of the ax rather than brute force, he split the log cleanly in two.

Miles was pleased. Chopping firewood, it seemed, was like riding a bicycle; once you learn, you don't forget. In this instance, however, he hadn't learned it by doing it himself. He had watched someone else do it long ago.

* * *

It was already late in the day when they departed for the lake. Gregory checked the rear view mirror as he drove. Miles was there in the mirror, seated in the backseat with the same expression that had been on his face since they left the house. Although the park was to their left, he was staring out the window to his right at the rows of houses lining the street. Maybe the six-year-old boy simply wasn't interested in camping. Gregory could only hope it was that simple.

Gregory turned left into the park. The asphalt road continued on for some time; eventually, the car came to a dirt road. Gregory continued driving until they arrived at their destination. The Gourd Lake Campgrounds were a five-minute walk from the lake; close enough to walk to, but far enough from the sounds of weekend tourists. He was pleased to see that there were only two other tents; he and Miles would have some privacy for the next two days.

"We're here, Miles." Gregory pulled into the parking space in front of one of the campsites. When Miles didn't answer him, he looked into the rear view mirror again. Miles was in the same position; his eyes were focused on some faraway point out the window. Gregory stifled a sigh as he unbuckled his seat belt and exited the car.

Gregory opened the rear door. "Miles." Without looking at his father, Miles unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his backpack before slowly scrambling out of the car.

"Do you want me to hold that for you?" Gregory asked, motioning towards the backpack. "You can pick the spot where we'll put up the tent."

"It's fine," Miles said. "I can hold on to it."

Gregory wore a slight frown of concern on his brow. "How about the tent? Where should we put it?"

Miles shrugged. He still hadn't made eye contact with his father. "I don't know. Anywhere is fine, right?"

Gregory's lips tilted in a smile despite himself. "That's not true. Come here. I'll show you why."

For the first time since leaving the house, Miles eyes met his father's. Curious, he followed him.

Gregory walked to the middle of the campsite. A small wooden picnic table and a metal grate for campfires stood off to one side. It was a comfortably small space, perfect for the both of them. He looked down at the little boy, who was looking back at him with curiosity.

Gregory smiled, relieved that the boy was finally interested. "When you pick the place you're going to put your tent, you'll want to think about how comfortable you're going to be while you're sleeping," Gregory explained. "See over here?" Gregory pointed to the north side of camp. "This area, at first glance, might seem like a good place to put your tent. It's shady, which means it will be out of the sun during the day and you can relax inside without feeling like you're a loaf of bread in an oven." Gregory continued to smile as Miles frowned. He could tell that his son was critically processing the information in his mind. He was a precocious child.

"Then why don't we put the tent there?" Miles asked.

"Take a look at the ground over there," Gregory said. "What do you see?"

Miles frowned as he gazed at the spot his father had indicated. His eyes slowly brightened as he came up with an answer. "There are a lot of rocks," the boy said.

Gregory smiled and nodded. "Exactly. The last thing you want to do is sleep on top of a bunch of rocks. We could remove them if we're really set on putting up the tent there, but there might be a better place around here."

"What about over there?" Miles pointed to a space in the western portion of the small campground. "That area looks pretty empty."

"Ah." Gregory placed his hands on his hips. "It's pretty good, but I think there's still something wrong with it. Can you guess what it is?"

Miles frowned. Gregory had always been surprised how deeply the boy's brow would furrow when he was lost in thought. He hoped it wouldn't become a habit as he got older.

"I think I know," Miles said slowly. "The ground kind of slopes a little."

Gregory smiled. "I knew you'd get it," he said proudly. "The ground slopes a little bit over there. It's not too comfortable sleeping on a surface that isn't flat."

Miles continued to frown as he surveyed the campsite. There weren't too many other options. He lowered his head in thought, and after a moment, it dawned on him.

"What about right where we're standing?" Miles asked.

Gregory looked at his son and chuckled. "I think this is the perfect spot."

"Is that why we're standing here?" Miles asked. "You thought this would be the perfect spot all along!"

Gregory's chuckle turned into a laugh. "Nothing gets past you, Miles. Clever as always." He put a hand on his son's head and ruffled his hair. "You'll make a great defense attorney someday."

Miles smiled at his father. Gregory returned his smile, but the fact that Miles' own smile hadn't touched his eyes was apparent. Miles' smile was forced.

They spent the rest of the afternoon making camp. Once the tent was up, Miles seated himself at the picnic table and dug into his backpack to retrieve a book. His father, meanwhile, had brought out a bundle of wood and an ax from the trunk of the car. Twilight had descended over the lake and only a hint of light fell across the campsite.

Miles stared at his father as he placed one of the logs on top of an old stump. In the dim light, Gregory rolled up his sleeves of his shirt and grasped the ax with both hands. He heaved the ax over his shoulders and brought the end down upon the log in a wide arc. It effortlessly split the log in two.

Miles flinched at the sound of the log splitting and dropped his book, which clattered ignominiously beneath the table. Gregory turned and caught Miles' gaze.

"Want to give it a try?" Gregory asked with a smile. Miles shook his head emphatically, though he knew his father was kidding; there was no way a six-year-old would be able to wield that ax.

Gregory leaned on the ax for a moment. "It's not as hard as it looks," he said to Miles. Judging from the look on the boy's face, the boy had seemed impressed that his father had split the log so expertly.

"How…." Miles' brow was furrowed again. "How did you do it?"

"The trick is to let the weight of the ax do all the work," Gregory responded. A shadow passed over his face as a memory rose from somewhere deep inside his mind. He lowered his eyes to the ground as he continued. "Your mother could wield this ax and split a log twice this size. She did it several times, in fact." He looked up and chuckled. "She was such a tiny thing. Surprised even me."

Miles was silent as Gregory resumed his work. He split two logs, then three.

"Did you and Mom go camping a lot?" Miles asked. The book he had been reading lay forgotten under the table.

Gregory split a fourth log before turning to face Miles. "A few times before you came along. She loved the outdoors." He smiled wistfully. "We planned on taking you camping when you got old enough, but…."

Gregory's words faded from his lips. Miles looked away and started to swing his dangling legs, his toes barely grazing the ground. Gregory clenched his jaw. His son was retreating again.

"Miles…." Gregory's eyebrows knitted with concern. "You can talk to me, you know. You can talk to me about—"

At the sound of his father's suggestion, Miles suddenly reached underneath the table to fish out his book. The boy dusted off the pages and resumed reading. Gregory's words hung in his throat.

Instead, Gregory sighed and raised his face to the sky in frustration. The first stars were beginning to peek out against the dark blue backdrop of the evening. It was getting late; he still had much to do before darkness descended. Gregory turned and looked at the split logs sitting at the foot of the stump.

"That's enough for now," he said to himself.

* * *

Miles removed his cravat as he stared at the modest pile of split logs he had created. He tossed it onto the rail of a wooden fence and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He pulled on the collar to let the chill of the air cool his flushed skin.

 _They would definitely laugh,_ he thought to himself with a smile. Miles would never have carelessly tossed away his clothing if he were in the city. He was in the countryside, however. He felt more relaxed…more at ease. He hadn't felt this way in a long time.

He placed another log on end and set the ax to it. There was a pleasant soreness in his back and in his shoulders that had come from repeatedly swinging the ax. His hands ached from the cold and the tightness of his grip. His shirt was stained with sweat. He allowed himself a quick smile as the split log fell to the ground. It felt good.

A loud barking caused Miles to look up from his work. Pess was tearing through the yard towards him. With a wide grin, Miles set the ax down as he waited for the large dog.

"Pess, you rascal," he said in a low voice. Pess barked as he came to a stop in front of Miles. He jumped and stood on his hind legs, pressing his muddy paws against Miles' chest. Unmindful of the stains, Miles grabbed the dog and wrestled with him for a moment before walking back to the stump with a laugh.

"You can stay, Pess, but I have work to do," Miles said to the dog. Pess tilted his head at the sound of his master's voice. Another look at the darkening sky had reminded Miles of his need to hurry. "I'll be done in a little bit."

Traveling with pets was never easy; flying with them was even less so. Pess never seemed to mind the stress of flying however, and Miles was glad for it. He had insisted on bringing Pess with him when he traveled to Europe; with his dog by his side all those years, he was never truly alone. His decision to fly Pess out with him to New York was a good one. He knew the dog would love the farm, and he was right.

Miles looked around and picked up the ax with a sigh. Crisp, clean air. No traffic. No neighbors. His dog by his side.

He could get used to this. He was glad she had suggested it.

* * *

The sounds of the orchestra followed Miles down the stairs and into the lobby of the concert hall. He briefly paused to reconsider his departure as a frown shadowed his face, but he had already made up his mind. With a backwards glance, he adjusted his glasses and walked out of the building.

He was tired. Weary. The music wasn't helping.

A week had passed since he last saw Wright at the Sprocket wedding. It was warm in Los Angeles, but that was no surprise. Summers began early in this part of the country and lingered for as long as they could. However, the weather made black tie events insufferable. Miles longed for nothing more than to shuck the tailored jacket off his back to emancipate himself from the heat. He continued walking until he reached the center of the large courtyard. From there, he could no longer hear the orchestra playing. It was a small relief.

"Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth?"

Miles turned. A young woman was standing behind him.

The woman smiled as she watched a look of recognition pass over Miles' face. "I'm surprised to see you out here. Not a fan of Shostakovich?"

Miles' lips turned up in a smile. "I organized this event, Detective Skye. I asked them to play Shostakovich."

Ema was dressed in a sequined nightgown that trailed behind her. Her long brown hair was arranged in ringlets and curls that grazed her neck. The clicking of her heels as she walked towards him echoed throughout the courtyard. "I thought you only listened to _ppongjjak—_ well, that's what Mr. Wright told me."

Miles closed his eyes as he felt his face flush. The weather was already wretchedly hot; sweating would only make matters worse. "That lummox has been perpetrating these lies about me since we were children. I only listened to it once, and that's when we were in grade school."

Ema came to a stop in front of him. She pressed a finger to her cheek in thought. "He said you were dancing to it."

He exhaled in frustration. "It was once, Detective Skye," Miles said in a low voice.

Turning her eyes to him, she gave him a knowing smile and nodded. "If you say so, Mr. Edgeworth. I believe you!"

Miles pursed his lips. He had a feeling that she preferred Wright's story to his own. _I thought I was her idol, too._

"I'd thought you'd be back in Khura'in by now," Miles said, quickly changing the subject.

Ema nodded. "Prosecutor Sahdmadhi and I leave tomorrow afternoon. A week ago he was asked to prosecute a case in a nearby district, so I stayed here after the wedding to help him."

Miles nodded. "I'm glad the both of you were here for this event. I take it he's inside listening to the concert right now. These charity events that the Prosecutor's Office hold seem like something a monk would be interested in supporting."

Ema nodded. "It's right up his alley."

The conversation hit a lull. They stood next to each other in silence. The courtyard was merciful in that regard; from their position, Miles could neither hear the orchestra nor the evening traffic. The young woman was silent as well. She didn't try to engage in small talk like so many of his subordinates did when he shared an elevator ride with them. Instead, her patient eyes were studying the grand architecture of the Music Center. He was thankful for that.

Miles had never spent much time with Ema in a personal capacity; the awkwardness he felt in her proximity made his words feel stilted and forced as they left his lips. Most of his memories of her consisted of the times they had worked together over the years. More significantly, they had worked against each other in one specific instance. Even now as he looked at her from the corners of his eyes, the memories of that trial reluctantly surfaced in his mind.

Ema's voice finally broke the silence. "Why are you out here, Mr. Edgeworth?"

Miles turned his head to face her. They had been standing shoulder to shoulder as they stood quietly, but now Ema turned her body towards him to speak. She didn't engage in small talk, but she had a youthful earnestness; it was a solemn reminder of her age. She reminded him of Lana in that regard. As a matter of fact, she must be as old as Lana was during that trial now.

Miles sighed and turned a doleful smile towards her. "I left because they were playing Shostakovich."

Ema blinked. "Even though you asked them to?"

"Even though." Miles narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. "What about you?"

Ema gave him a lopsided smile. "Same."

Miles folded his arms. "The new conductor for the philharmonic is an atrocity. He has a tendency to linger on the downbeat. Listening to him direct Shostakovich is like listening to Shostakovich with a limp."

Ema's lips turned down into a pout. "I'm not sure what that means, Mr. Edgeworth," she quietly admitted.

Miles cleared his throat. "The downbeat is the first beat in a measure of music," he explained. "It's a gauge of how fast or slow a piece of music will be. It establishes rhythm. Pacing. Tempo. It gives an orchestral work meaning. Too fast or too slow and the entire meaning behind an orchestral work is distorted." Miles frowned as he stared at Ema. Her expression had not changed. "Was that clear?"

Ema knitted her eyebrows. "Well, I just meant that I…." She sighed. "I couldn't listen to that music…." She paused. "Because of Lana."

Miles pursed his lips and exhaled. He had feebly expounded on music theory in an effort to avoid this very topic. "I thought as much." His voice was strained; the words, as well as the emotions, were hard to express.

Ema cast her gaze towards the cement floor of the courtyard. Her lips parted hesitatingly before she spoke. "I heard you two one day, you know. You and my sister. You were in her office."

Miles turned his head away and placed his hands in his pockets. "Then you knew why I'm out here. There was no need to ask."

Ema pursed her lips before turning away. They stood shoulder to shoulder once more. "I guess I did know. I just wanted to know if you remembered."

Miles inhaled slowly. He wasn't good with this sort of thing. The pretext to their conversation was laden with much more emotion than he cared to deal with at that moment.

Ema shuffled her feet. Miles let his eyes drop to look at her shoes. Her high heels looked uncomfortable. Her dress, while elegant and flattering, seemed to constrain her. Ema had a way of making her beauty look effortless and coltish at the same time.

"I'm glad you remembered," she said quietly. "Those two years in the Chief Prosecutor's seat were awful for her. It was like she was a different person." Ema brought a hand up to the crook of her neck and rubbed it anxiously. "I think you made her happy."

Miles turned his gaze to her. "Happy?"

Ema knitted her eyebrows. "Scientifically speaking, of course."

Miles snorted and turned away. "Can you gauge a thing like happiness scientifically?"

"Of course!" To Miles' dismay, Ema's eyes brightened. She was about to go on one of her scientific dissertations. "It's possible to both quantitatively and qualitatively gauge the amount of 'happiness' an individual is feeling if we set certain standards and variables that are measurable both in a laboratory setting and in the field—"

"Thank you, Detective Skye," Miles said as he folded his arms. "It was a rhetorical question, but I appreciate the thought you put behind your analysis."

Ema pursed her lips. "What I mean to say, Mr. Edgeworth…is that I think it made her happy to watch over you." She paused, visibly trying to sort the words she wanted to say in her head. "There was a motherly side to her that never really went away, even when she was forced to do all those things to cover up those crimes."

"Motherly." Miles snorted. "There's not a loving mother in the world that would have done what she did." His voice was bitter now. He knew better than to engage with Ema on this topic, but it was too late. The music had already inflamed his heart.

"She changed near the end of that trial," Ema said. "She never intended to hurt you—"

"Her intent all those years ago no longer concerns me," Miles growled. The timbre of his voice echoed throughout the courtyard. "I've come to terms with it. I've heard her explanations and justifications. I've walked my own path since then."

"Then why are you _here?_ " Ema clutched her fists to her chest and stepped towards him. The amount of space between them was alarmingly small for Miles' prudent comfort. "You've salvaged your name. Your past is in the past. Yet we're both standing out here for a reason."

Miles clenched his jaw. She was right. They had both fled from the concert hall when the orchestra started to play Shostakovich. It was the last good memory he had of Lana, and he couldn't face the fact that that moment was a lie. He would ignore it just as he has for these past ten years.

Miles drew in a deep sigh. He had reached his limit, short as it was. All this talk of his feelings and the past had grated on his soul. All this talk about _her._ "If you'll excuse me, Detective Skye. I must be getting back."

"Y-you're not going back into the music hall?" Ema asked. "But the charity event—"

"I'll phone one of my subordinates to take over," Miles said. "Prosecutor Blackquill is as good a person as any to conclude the event. It's late and I need to finish the preparations for my trip tomorrow." He gave her a curt nod and turned in the direction of the parking garage. His paced quickened with each step.

"Mr. Edgeworth!"

Despite himself, Miles stopped at the sound of her voice. He closed his eyes. He didn't continue walking, yet he didn't turn around. _Why do you let her do this? Very few people would dream of talking to you like this, especially to a man of your position._

He already knew the answer. _Because she's Lana's sister._

Ema's voice cut through the stifling heat of the evening. "If you're leaving for the Legal League of Prosecutors conference tomorrow…."

Miles tilted his head in the direction of the young woman before turning to face her. The moon lit the courtyard with an ethereal glow. Ema's dress shimmered in its light. "I know of a place in New York where you can go if…." Ema's eyes grew soft as she met Miles' eyes. "If you need a quiet place to think about things for awhile."

* * *

Miles split the last log—and just in time. The last of the sun had crept underneath the eaves of the trees and disappeared. In mere moments, it would be too dark to walk around the farm without a flashlight. However, he accomplished what he set out to do; he had enough wood for the rest of the evening and possibly tomorrow as well.

Pess had wandered into the pumpkin patch and was busy sniffing out a trail some animal had left behind. Miles stacked the wood neatly into the red wagon to be brought back to the house. With a low whistle, Miles called Pess to him as he pulled his cravat off the fence rail. Pess immediately bounded across the pumpkin patch to his side.

Rust had gotten to the wagon's axles, making it difficult to pull. He could fix that tomorrow. A lot of things around the farm needed fixing: the waterspout in front of the farmhouse needed a new handle. Several fences needed mending. The gutters needed cleaning. He didn't need to fix anything around the farm, yet he wanted to. There was a certain satisfaction he gained from working with his hands. That satisfaction came few and far between in the city. Miles wondered how long he could extend his impromptu vacation before the Prosecutor's Office began to worry about him.

Miles felt colder now that his muscles have relaxed. The cold wind chilled his sweat-stained shirt and cut through his body. Pess ran ahead as Miles dragged the squeaky wagon through the yard. When Pess started barking, Miles raised his head.

A yellow truck was pulling up into the dirt driveway. The nearest asphalt road was half a mile away; whoever was coming to the farmhouse was not here by accident. Through the dim light, Miles studied the vehicle. The paint was patchy and worn. Rust mottled the chrome fender. The truck looked like it had been brought out on its fair share of fieldwork around a farm.

Miles stopped in front the farmhouse just as the driver shut the engine off. The door opened. Miles let the wagon handle fall from his fingers.

"Miles Edgeworth. I didn't think you'd actually show up."

Miles stood quietly as he stoically studied the woman before him. Lana Skye had aged gracefully. Even in the darkness, he could make out where the contours of her once youthful face had been replaced by the sharper angles and lines of maturity. However, her beauty was just as evident now as it was then.

Miles nodded in greeting. "Ms. Skye." He had already forgotten the chill of the evening wind.

Pess ran up to Lana and greeted her as she closed the truck door. She scratched the dog's ears lovingly. "And Pess. This is a surprise." Lana folded her arms against the crisp wind as she and Pess walked towards the house. The autumn leaves crinkled under her feet. "A two-for-one visit."

"I thought he would like the farm," Miles said. "He's enjoyed his vacation so far."

"And have you?" Lana asked with a smile. She cast a glance at the pile of wood in the wagon, then turned to Miles and studied him. Miles felt himself burn hot under her gaze, just like he had when she was Chief Prosecutor. "You look like an English baron who's returned to his country cottage. The farm life suits you."

Miles didn't smile. Instead, he swept his arm towards the front door. "Head inside, Ms. Skye. It's cold."

"What about the wood?" Lana asked. "I should help."

Miles shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it." He turned towards the wagon and started to gather the wood in his arms. "It's your home, after all."

Lana sighed as she walked up the stairs. "Come on, Pess. Let's get some dinner for you."

Lana and Pess retreated into the house. At the sound of the screen door closing, Miles paused. He quietly recounted the reasons he had decided to come to Lana's farm, but to no avail. His nerves were still twisted with anxiety. Clutching a bundle of wood against his chest, he walked into the house and began piling them by the hearth.

Lana had turned on the lights in the house. The warm, incandescent lights brought out the rich umber tones of the hardwood floor. The house was warmly decorated in neutral, earthy tones. A comfortable beige couch faced the fireplace. Magazines and coasters were spread out upon the coffee table. The house exuded a feeling of "lived-in disarray" that made Miles feel at home. He had known Lana to be a meticulous person, but now it was the small signs that she had cast off that persona that touched him.

When Miles was done, Lana and Pess entered the living room. She was dressed in a cream-colored turtleneck and jeans. The elegant simplicity of her outfit lay in stark contrast to the stern dark brown suit she once wore as Chief Prosecutor. Miles was suddenly self conscious of his own muddied and disheveled appearance.

"I hope our presence isn't disturbing you," Miles said. He knelt before the hearth and began to stack logs inside the fireplace. Pess took his place next to him. "Your sister assured me that she had cleared everything with you."

Lana took a seat on the couch. She held a glass of wine in her hands. "Of course it's all right." She laughed quietly. "I hope _I'm_ not disturbing _you._ "

Miles flinched as he arranged the logs inside the fireplace. He was at a loss for words. He couldn't answer her.

Lana leaned back against the couch. "How was the conference?"

"It was…fine," Miles said. He placed some tinder in a gap between the logs.

"Knowing you, I bet you couldn't wait to leave," Lana said. She took a sip of her wine. "I didn't like going to those conventions. I'm sure it wasn't any better for you."

Miles struck a match and touched it to the tinder. An orange glow slowly spread along the fine mix of wood fibers and paper. Miles gently blew into the fireplace until flames erupted and engulfed the tinder. He watched as the flames slowly unfurled across the logs.

"That's pretty good," Lana said as she watched the flames rise in the fireplace. "Who knew Miles Edgeworth was such a boy scout?"

"My father taught me," Miles said as he rose to his feet. He leaned against the mantle as he stared at the fire. "It was one of the last things he taught me about the outdoors."

"You look like your father, you know," Lana said.

Miles turned and stared at her. "How do you know? You've never met my father."

Lana took a sip of her wine. "The photos in the DL-6 case files. Naturally, as Chief Prosecutor, I went through them."

Placing a hand on his hip, Miles turned back towards the fire. "Perhaps. I've inherited his eyesight at the very least."

"…Miles."

Miles frowned as he turned back towards Lana, surprised that she had used his name so familiarly. "Ms. Skye—"

She shook her head. "Just call me Lana."

Miles sighed and pursed his lips. He felt as though he was slowly being cornered into the back of a narrow alley. "Ms. Skye. I appreciate your hospitality, but I don't believe the nature of our relationship has evolved to that stage."

Lana set her wine glass down on the coffee table and leaned forward. "Then why are you here, Miles? Did you come here to light a fire and leave?"

"I wouldn't have chosen those words so carelessly," Miles growled. Lana's lips parted in surprise as Miles adjusted his sleeves. "If you'll excuse me—I've spent the better part of the evening outdoors. I'd like to get cleaned up."

Lana frowned as she watched Miles escape from the living room. "Miles—"

Miles walked up the stairs and into the guest room. He moved into the adjoining bathroom as he unbuttoned his shirt and turned on the shower. After a few moments, he stepped into the small cast iron tub. He felt his tense, sore muscles relax as the hot water cascaded over him.

He was a fool for coming here.

* * *

Gregory had almost forgotten how ominous a campsite could be after dark. The light from the campfire cast long shadows across the ground and lit the eaves of the trees above them. Miles sat close to his father as he clutched a flashlight to his chest.

"Why is it so dark out here?" Miles asked in a small voice.

Gregory smiled as he put an arm around the boy. "Well, we're away from the lights of the city. There aren't any streetlights nearby. There aren't any cars." Gregory pointed up towards the sky. "Take a look up there."

Miles looked up. Above him were thousands of stars winking down at him.

"Wow," he breathed.

"You can't see them back in the city, can you?" Gregory asked. Miles shook his head. "That's because all the lights from the city hide all those stars." Gregory turned his face towards the sky. "When you get far away from all the noise and the lights, you can see things that you wouldn't normally see. Everything is quiet and everything becomes clearer."

Gregory sat in silence as he stared at the stars. Miles did too. A peaceful stillness hung in the air. The only sounds to be heard were the popping of the campfire and the occasional chirp of a cricket. It wasn't until Gregory heard a shuddering sigh coming from Miles that he looked down towards his son.

Miles' face was still pressed towards the sky. His breathing had become ragged.

"Dad," Miles said softly, his voice breaking. "Do you think Mom is up there right now?"

A tear slipped down Miles' face, then two more. Miles continued to stare at the sky through his tears. His shuddering breaths turned into heaving sobs.

Gregory held the boy against his chest. It was the first time Miles had cried since his mother's death. Over the past week, Miles had expressed other sentiments through his actions. The boy felt angry. Betrayed. Helpless. Abandoned. This was the first time Gregory had seen him express sadness.

"I think so," Gregory said. He removed his glasses and laid them carefully beside him before wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. He gently held the boy as he sobbed into his shirt. "I think so."

"I miss her, Dad." Miles' words were muffled against Gregory's chest. The boy's little hands clutched his father's jacket.

Gregory sighed as he stared at the stars. A cricket chirped in the darkness. "I do, too."

* * *

The stairs creaked as Miles walked. The steps were cold against his bare feet. When he entered the living room, he found Pess asleep at Lana's feet. She was seated on the couch as she nursed a glass of wine. Shostakovich was playing on the stereo. The fire crackled in the fireplace. For a moment, Miles leaned against the doorframe and studied them.

"You should come in, Miles." Without turning to face him, Lana waved a hand towards a glass of wine on the coffee table. "I poured you a glass."

"I was trying to figure out whether you were upset with me." Miles walked to the couch and took a seat. He grabbed the wine glass and held it lightly in his hand.

Lana smiled. "You're as blunt as I remember."

Miles draped an arm across the back of the couch and took a sip of wine. "As are you." The wine was exquisite. Lana always did have good taste in wine.

The shower had done much to calm Miles' nerves. He was able to look at Lana without his stomach twisting into a vicious knot. A strand of Lana's hair had fallen loose and was draped against her cheek. She didn't look at him.

Here, in front of him after ten years, was the first woman in his adult life who had shown an interest in his welfare. She had watched over him. She helped him. She put his mind at ease. In the end, she betrayed him.

Miles took another sip of wine before setting the glass back down onto the coffee table. She had betrayed him, yet all Miles wanted to do was reach across the couch and tuck that errant strand of hair back over her ear. He hated himself for it.

"To answer your question: no. I'm not upset with you." Lana curled her legs under herself as she turned towards the stereo. Shostakovich's Symphony No. 15 was in its last movement. "I deserved it." She paused. "I don't blame you for feeling that way towards me."

Miles shifted his eyes away. "You've already apologized. It's incumbent upon me to accept it and move on."

Lana placed her glass down. "Well, we can sit here and continue our cycle of sorrow…." She leaned forward. Her eyes caught the fire's light. "Or you can tell me why you decided to come to my farm."

Miles leaned back and looked away. Lana had a way of breaking him down. Whether she knew it or not, it was one of the qualities that made her such a good lawyer. Miles sighed and turned his gaze towards the fireplace. Pess rustled at the foot of the couch.

"I came here to ask you to come back." Miles' voice was strained. He watched the flames dance in the fireplace.

Lana frowned in thought as she studied his face. "You helped your friend, Mr. Wright, get his badge back last year."

Miles nodded. "I did. I can help you do the same." He cleared his throat and turned towards her. "I thought I would come here and ask you to come back to Los Angeles. I believed you were doing yourself a disservice by hiding yourself away in upstate New York. I thought that if…." Miles swallowed and weighed his words. "…That if we worked together again, I could move past everything that happened."

Lana narrowed her eyes as she listened to Miles. "And now?"

Miles smiled and turned to her. "And now I think _I'm_ the one who chose the wrong occupation." He chuckled and picked up his glass of wine. He swirled the glass around before taking a sip. "I think I should have been a farmer."

Lana laughed. Miles had only heard her laugh once in the two years they worked together in the Prosecutor's Building. It was that day in her office.

"You would like the solitude," she said. "But I think you need people, Miles. You need people more than you think you do."

Miles took another sip of wine. "Perhaps."

Lana stared at the glass in her hands. "I'm happy you came to see me." Lana finished her wine and placed the glass on the table. "But I think my days as a lawyer have come to an end. Your days as Chief Prosecutor are just beginning."

Miles sat motionless. Somehow, he knew this was this answer she would give. Even as he drove with Pess up the dirt road towards her farmhouse, his 24-year-old self grew nervous at the thought of rejection. His 35-year-old self, however, merely accepted her answer with remorse.

In the background, the symphony came to an end. The house was silent.

Lana reached over and gently touched Miles' arm, which was resting on the back of the couch. "I've done horrible things, Miles. You don't have to forgive me, but I hope you know that I'm always here for you."

Miles turned to her. The words came out before he could stop them. "How can you say that? Not once did you try to contact me after your sentence was over. Before I had even known you were out, you disappeared."

"You were in Europe, Miles," Lana responded plaintively.

The emotions that Miles had kept bottled in his heart for ten years suddenly spilled out before him. "I sent you letters. I called. I had to find your whereabouts from _your sister._ "

"Think about it, Miles!" Lana cried. "How does it look for a man who's about to become Chief Prosecutor to be associating with a convicted felon—and a former Chief Prosecutor, at that? The public would never trust you!"

"I don't care what the damned public thinks!" Miles growled.

Lana narrowed her eyes as she stared at Miles. "Someone has to, for your sake. I did what I had to do."

Miles exhaled as he sunk into the couch. Lana brushed her long hair back over her ear. It suddenly made sense. Miles looked away as he pondered her words.

Lana's voice became hushed with regret. "It was for the best, Miles."

Miles' breathing slowed as he thought about the content of his correspondence with Lana. He had poured his heart into each letter, each phone call, every email. Each letter had been sent back, every phone call unreturned, every email unopened…yet it was because she had been following his career from afar. She had never stopped watching over him. It made sense.

Lana stood and brought her glass into the kitchen. "How long will you be staying here?" she called to Miles.

Miles lowered his eyes in thought. "Lana."

Lana had been pouring herself another glass of wine. She quickly set the wine bottle down and turned. Miles had called her by her given name.

Lana was right. His days as Chief Prosecutor were just beginning. Without a doubt, paperwork was piling higher on his desk with every day he was away. Now that he had Lana's answer, it was time for him to leave. However, Lana's farm was in disarray. Fences needed to be mended, gutters needed to be cleaned, water pumps needed to be fixed.

First thing's first. It was time to forgive her.

Miles stood and walked into the kitchen. He took off his glasses and placed them on the table. "Do you remember that day in your office?"

Lana flushed as Miles drew closer. She averted her eyes. "O-of course I do."

Miles placed his hand on her wine glass. Gently taking it from her hand, he placed it on the table. "Let's do it again—for old time's sake."

Lana stared into his eyes. A smile crept over her lips. "Did you bring it?"

Miles narrowed his eyes. "That's a silly question. Of course I did."

She laughed again. The sweet sound coursed straight to his heart. "Then get it."

Miles walked up the stairs to the guest room. When he returned to the living room, Lana was sitting near the stereo with a violin in her hands. Miles pulled a chair in from the kitchen and arranged it in front of her. He was holding a flute.

"Shostakovich, Five Pieces?" Lana asked as she tuned her violin.

Miles quickly played a scale to warm up. "Shostakovich it is."

Satisfied with her tuning, she looked at Miles. "You never told me how long you were staying."

Miles quickly glanced at Pess, who was still sound asleep at the foot of the couch. It would take more than their ruckus to wake the big dog. "That all depends on how well you play."

Lana smiled. She placed her hand on the metronome, but Miles quickly reached out and stopped her.

"Let's just play," he said.

Lana frowned. "But the tempo…."

Lana's words faded away as her eyes met Miles'. They didn't need the metronome. They would give the song its own tempo, its own meaning. Miles gently held her hand until her fingers fell away from the needle.

Lana smiled as she raised the violin to her chin. "Ready, Chief Prosecutor?"

Miles raised the flute to his lips. "Ready."

Lana fixed her blue eyes on his and touched the bow to the strings. "Then let's begin."


End file.
